


the end of infinity (with you)

by cyanica



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Body Horror, Bulimia, Dean Whump, Dean Winchester Has an Eating Disorder, Eating Disorders, Fainting, Gen, Gore, Hell Trauma, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, PTSD, Sick Dean, Torture, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Vomit, dean is v fucked up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-22 23:55:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20000581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyanica/pseuds/cyanica
Summary: Somehow it wasn’t enough. Breaking his hand wasn’t enough. Throwing up everything he choked down wasn’t enough. And beating on his bulging stomach while it cramped and gurgled violently from the abuse still wasn’t enough to make his fucked up brain convince itself he was no longer trapped inside Alastair's world of infinite agony.Or, Dean’s a bulimic that eats his weight in empty calories and throws it all up again because he needs to remind himself he is alive by breaking himself apart.





	the end of infinity (with you)

**Author's Note:**

> v graphic gore, throwing up and emetophilia (not in a sexual way), so be cautious coz this is gross and ansty af. read tags for triggers.
> 
> title from ‘last of the real ones’ - fall out boy

His body ached, screaming at him in ways he didn’t think he’d ever feel again since Hell. His gums felt bloody –  _ infected _ –, teeth feeling like they were being pushed out from the force of acidic bile and vomit retching out of him for the better half of the hour. God, his stomach bulged with the thousands of empty, lard-like calories he’d gorged himself with, only to cramped up, twist, spilt and congest again at each violent heave into the porcelain throne of shit and piss that he’d become so friendly with in recent months. It should be terrifying.

And it  _ was _ terrifying, he knew. Dean Winchester did not glut himself with greasy, fried, sugar-included-coma food – if you could even call it that – for kicks; instead it had become his only way to live, and  _ God _ , that terrified him more than what he was actually doing to himself to begin with. 

It was impossible to stop. As soon as he pushed his fingers so far down this throat he choked, his stomach gave way to all the gluttonous amounts of undigested calories he’d forced down. It came back up his esophagus as a disgusting mixture of vomit, bile and blood that burned his throat, mouth and lips as it came gushing out of him.

Soon, he’d be trying to save the shred of dignity he had left, but failing epicly and finding himself lying across the bathroom floor in seconds, head splitting from the pressure in his skull, tears pushing themselves out of his eyes. Dean knew that that was the reaction the part of his mind had when it screamed at him to stop this torture upon himself, but he  _ couldn’t _ .

He was left gasping and weeping on the fucking revolting motel bathroom floor that was covered in vomit, STDs, and fuck-he-didn’t-want-know-what-else, only to push himself from the freezing tiles, wrap an arm around his abused, bloated stomach, and do it all over again with the family-size fast food takeaway shit, or the entire two-layer Walmart cake he’d brought because, ‘Sammy, I fucking Alcatraz’d my way out of Hell. I deserve this.’ 

The dry, chocolate fudge cake with half the letters of ‘birthday’ smeared into the plastic it came in, was shoved down Dean’s throat in minutes, his stomach so full it felt like the mucus lining of the organ would tear and perhaps he’d finally die, bleeding internally with a full two-tier cake and shit leaking from his abdomen. 

_ Maybe _ , Dean thought, but he prayed to God – with irony suffocating his being (people do desperate things then they’re terrified) – that that wouldn’t happen. Too deathly afraid to die, and end right back with Alastair who would rip out his intestines, shove them down his throat and keep him so insanely awake that he could feel his own intestines burn within his own stomach’s acid, mouth too full with his own organs, blood and vomit to scream, or beg like he never had done once in his entire life. 

But, this wasn’t Hell, Dean forced himself to realise. This was Earth where people’s greatest fears were global warming, the stock market crashing and the Mayan calendar ending. Here, he wasn’t a pitiful soul that escaped eternal damnation. 

Here, he was just a bulimic that eat his weight in empty calories and threw it all up again because he needed to remind himself he was alive by breaking himself apart. 

Here, he was so fucking afraid of dying that he gorged and purged himself, and he gorged and purged himself because he was so fucking afraid of living, of feeling absolutely anything else than excruciating pain to know that he was  _ alive _ . 

Dean Winchester slammed his fist flat against the stained floor tiles, feeling it crack under the force of his hand that reverberated with the pain of a broken bone of two in his palm. 

Somehow it wasn’t enough. Breaking his hand wasn’t enough, throwing up everything he choked down wasn’t enough, and beating on his bulging stomach while it cramped and gurgled violently from the abuse still wasn’t enough to make his fucked up brain convince itself he was no longer trapped inside Alastair's world of infinite agony. 

There was a fine line between not wanting to be alive, but being so sickeningly petrified of death. The things Dean Winchester did to himself  _ was _ that line, that unsteady, breakable wavelink of  _ living but not, _ was where he existed: that constant state of self-infected torture that kept him vibrantly alive enough to endure every ache and torment his body deserved, without teetering on the edge of death too much to be called suicide. 

Although Sam, Dean knew, would disagree. Thank God – perhaps he did genuinely mean it this time to the big man upstairs – Sam didn’t know about what his brother did at 4:00 AM, or whenever he left the motel room for more than a couple hours. 

Last week he did, however, notice the way Dean’s body had faded of all the fat and muscle it had before he landed himself in the pit. His ribs poked through pale, freckled, tight skin as well as his pelvis, collarbone and jawline.

It wasn’t very noticeable when Dean was bundled up in his lumberjack flannels, jeans or dad’s jacket, but when he changed clothes or headed for the shower and Sam got a glimpse at his brother’s too bony physique, it jarred him. 

“Dude, you good? Lookin’ kinda…”  _ skelatal _ . Is what Sam had wanted to say, and Dean couldn’t bring up the energy to give a fuck, since his head was spitting so badly, he was sure it would fall apart in his hands that gripped it on either side to hold the pieces together, preventing it from falling into a million glass fragments of suicidal insanity.

The hunt had taken them to Montana, which city he could barely remember.  _ God _ , he couldn’t even remember what the monster had been. It should’ve alarmed him, he should have wanted to scream that something was so fucking wrong with him, so wrong it was painful; but he just gasped silently with his head cradled in his heads. Sam’s voice had been ringing through his ears and his stomach was so empty it was gurgling nothing but air inside aching his abdomen, feeling as if it was digesting itself. 

That was the night he passed out, ashamed to admit it, and it had been the most petrified either of them had been in a long time.

Dean saw Sam, felt his brain burn white-hot searing agony, spreading pain with each throbbing heartbeat, felt the insane panic of the  _ thought _ of reliving Hell again. God, it was so vile, he could taste it. His own melting flesh sizzled off in horrifying chunks at the insufferable heat, his mind shattered against the hammer grinding his skull into pieces of brain matter, his intestines knotted in revoltening ways as the bodily organs, blood and burning flesh jammed itself endlessly inside that was left of his tormented stomach that was trying to devour itself. 

Blood. Alastair. He laughed. God laughed with him. 

God cackled as the demon forced Dean’s mangled body against a piercing steel, metal table that ignited his nerves like millions of needles cutting into his skin. 

God doubled over in suffocating laughter as Alastair thrused himself into Dean’s body while forcing flesh down his throat until Dean couldn’t feel a single fucking thing anymore. 

God choked on his own unbelievable hysteria while Dean died for the hundredth time that hour, covered in gallons of his own blood, flesh that ripped off so violently his bones broke though the surface, and a demon’s cum that burn so acidicly, the areas it touched evaporated and ceased to exist. 

The stretched, pale skin around his bloated middle burst, gushing out with his own undigested brain matter, a beating heart, and liters and liters of blood that circulated the human body.

But this body wasn’t human anymore. It was a heap of bloody, abused meat that Alastair kept alive, only to mangle, ingite, fuck, and slaughter so wickedly it was beyond Godforsaken to the point where he couldn’t remeber that he ever was human. It went on again and again for the rest of time. 

And then he saw nothing. But, it was a trick, it  _ had  _ to have been. He was in the pit second go-around, he’d gorged and purged and starved himself so many times that he died in a crappy motel room in Montana, and here Alastair was waiting to pick up where he left off, like nothing had happened. 

Sam saw Dean, falling from the bed. He caught him with shaky arms, feeling nothing but skin and bone at Dean’s touch. While Sam tore his throat raw, calling out Dean’s name, years of their father’s training and experience left him in a heartbeat. He knew what to do when somebody fainted, when they were unresponsive, when they were pale and cold and his brother, but all logical thought evaporated like steam, and suddenly Sam couldn’t think at all. He was calling his brother’s name frantically, as if it was the only thing he knew how to do. He was shaking him, begging him and praying to anyone that would listen for Dean to  _ wake up _ , but nothing changed – Dean stayed unconscious, his breathing shallow, his skin too pale, and his body too  _ thin _ . Sam’s mind replayed Dean’s body being shredded to ribbons in the months prior, and that was all it relieved, like a broken record on an endless loop, forever. 

It was over in less than one minute, sixty seconds, and then Dean woke up. He had just gotten dizzy, stood up to fast, and that was the end of it. Dean reassured Sam like his younger brother was five years old and didn’t know the difference between tripping over and collapsing into unconsciousness from exhaustion or starvation or a migraine or Hell-related PTSD that no human on Earth could ever  _ begin _ to understand.  _ Take your pick, _ Dean huffed inaudibly. 

Sam didn’t let it go for three days and still brought it up even after, but they both pretended not to notice and chose to ignore the others’ streaming tears that ran angry and terrified down their cheeks in the moment the older Winchester was  _ dead but not actually _ for sixty seconds. 

Sammy had just thrown him a bottle of Tylenol, and now here he was, one week later, killing himself to feel alive in the same way people prayed, or breathed. 

“You’re okay. You’re alive. You escaped.” Dean murmured, head pressed against the tub, lying on the freezing floor with trashed food bags and food packets which he knew he needed to get rid of before Sam came back. 

He acted like someone who had their shit together, picking up every piece of cardboard takeaway or environment-destroying plastic food wrappers, taking them to the bin outside and suddenly it was like nothing happened at all. 

Sam came back half an hour later, food from the diner in a bag, making Dean nauseous and starving all at once as Sam plopped it in front of him. 

“Eat.” He said flatly, a command, and Dean wanted to tell him to get fucked. 

_ Dean Winchester is saved _ . 

What a load of fucking bullshit.


End file.
